To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3)(88)

The princess consented to this poor bargain, for she had no other choice if she were to make Truth Teller a man of flesh and blood again. All the hours of that day she performed the spells and incantations that she had brought with her, but when the sun’s rays began to fade, Truth Teller was still stone. . . .

—from TRUTH TELLER

Three days later, Alistair was woken by a commotion downstairs. Someone was shouting and carrying on. He groaned and shoved his head beneath his pillow. Rising early was no longer a priority in his life. In fact, he had no priorities at all. Might as well stay abed.

But the commotion grew louder and closer, like an advancing midsummer’s storm until—ominously—it was right outside his bedroom door. He’d just flung the covers from his head when his sister crashed into his room.

“Alistair Michael Munroe, have you lost your mind?” Sophia blasted at him.

He clutched the bedsheets to his bare chest like a startled maiden and scowled at his sister. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit, dear sister?”

“To your own stupidity,” Sophia said promptly. “Do you know I met Mrs. Halifax on Castlehill in Edinburgh just yesterday morn, and she said that you and she had parted company?”

“No,” Alistair sighed. Badger had woken with the commotion of course, and the puppy came bumbling over the bed to lick his fingers. “Did she tell you that her name isn’t really Halifax?”

Sophia, who’d been pacing the room, stopped, her expression alarmed. “She’s not a widow?”

“No. She’s the former mistress of the Duke of Lister.”

Sophia blinked, and then scowled. “I thought she might still be married. If she’s left Lister, who she was before hardly matters.” She dismissed Helen’s scandalous past with an impatient wave of the hand. “What matters is that you dress at once and go to Edinburgh and apologize to that woman for whatever boneheaded thing you’ve said or done.”

Alistair eyed his sister, now vigorously drawing the curtains. “I’m appreciative of the fact that you assume the rift is my fault.”

She only snorted at that.

“But what,” he continued, “do you think I should do once I apologize? The woman won’t live here.”

She turned to face him and pursed her lips. “You asked her to marry you?”

Alistair looked away. “No.”

“And why not?”

“Don’t be a fool, Sophia.” His head was aching, and he just wanted to go back to sleep—perhaps forever. “She’s been the mistress to one of the richest men in England. She’s lived in London or near the capital all of her life. You should’ve seen the jewels and gold Lister gave her. Perhaps you hadn’t noticed, but I’m a disgustingly scarred, one-eyed man who is nearing his fourth decade and living in a dirty old castle in the middle of nowhere. Why the hell would she want to marry me?”

“Because she loves you!” Sophia nearly shouted.

He shook his head. “She might say she loves me—”

“She admitted it to you and you did nothing?” Sophia looked scandalized.

“Let me finish,” Alistair growled. His head was pounding, his mouth tasted of the ale he’d drunk the night before, and he hadn’t shaved since Helen left. He just wanted to get this over with and go back to bed.

His sister pressed her lips together and waved a hand impatiently for him to continue.

He inhaled. “She might think she loves me now, but what future would she have here with me? What future would I have if she grew tired of me and left?”

“What future do you have now?” Sophia retorted.

He raised his head slowly and looked at her. Her expression was fierce, but her eyes were sad behind their round spectacles.

“Are you looking forward so much to spending the rest of your life alone?” Sophia asked quietly. “Childless, friendless, without a lover or helpmeet to even talk to in the evenings? What life is this that you’re protecting so desperately from Helen’s defection? Alistair, you must have faith.”

“How can I?” he whispered. “How can I when at any moment everything might change? When I might lose everything?” He traced his scars. “I can no longer believe in happy futures, in good luck, in faith itself. I lost my face, Sophia.”

“Then you’re a coward,” his sister said, and it was like a slap.

“Sophia—”

“No.” She shook her head and held out her hands to him. “I know it will be harder for you than most. I know you have no illusions left about happiness, but goddamn it, Alistair, if you let Helen go, you might as well kill yourself now. You’ll be giving up, acknowledging not that happiness is capricious, but that you have no hope of happiness.”

He drew in a painful breath. His chest felt as if shards of glass were buried there, breaking, shifting, cutting into his heart. Making him bleed.

“You can no more change your face than she can change her past,” Sophia said. “They’re both there; they’ll always be there. You must simply learn to live with your scars as Helen has learned to live with her past.”

“I have learned to live with my face. It’s her I’m worried about.” He closed his eye. “I don’t know if she can live with me. I don’t know if I could bear it if she couldn’t.”